


we walk the same path (but got on different shoes)

by seditonem



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-14
Updated: 2014-10-14
Packaged: 2018-02-21 05:05:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2455847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seditonem/pseuds/seditonem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>in which arthur recruits eames to "inception industries", an assassination company.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we walk the same path (but got on different shoes)

**Author's Note:**

> unaffectionately alternatively titled "i don't bust back because i shoot first", which i just realised is from 'right above it' by drake & lil' wayne. which, i now have to live with that knowledge for the rest of my life. people keep asking for this fic to be put up which i don't really understand because. but thanks anyway!

Arthur first sees the man in the flesh when he follows him into the park. He's built broad - not really Arthur's first choice if he had to pick a partner on a mission - but then this isn't Arthur's choice at all, so he'll stop thinking about it as if it is. Wide shoulders, slimmer hips than Arthur had expected after said shoulders, and jeans that no one should wear unless they live in New York and happen to be called Kanye West. Of course, Arthur's seen all this before: in the files they have on him, in the footage they've used to keep tabs on him, in the goddamn written reports they have of him. Arthur probably knows this man better than he does himself. Arthur knows he’s unable to hold down a job, due to his penchant for dipping his nib in the company ink, and that he lives alone. Arthur knows that his parents are dead, that his degree in English literature is a first, and that in his spare time he practices faking IDs.  
  
And then a dog runs into view. Arthur was prepared for a flood, a rogue thunderstorm or perhaps some stray gunfire in his direction. He was not prepared for a dog.  
  
Some minutes later, the man sits down on the bench, lazily throwing a ball for the dog. Arthur pretends to stop and tie his shoelace, just to make sure nothing else is about to happen, and then walks slowly over to where the man is sitting. The dog stares at him. Arthur pretends not to mind.  
  
"Mr. Eames?" he asks, even though it's less of a question and more of a statement.  
  
He's rewarded with a lopsided smile. "'s me, who's asking?"  
  
Arthur was not prepared for exactly how his lazy English drawl would sound either: it doesn’t quite fit with Eames’ jeans and t-shirt. To distract himself, he pulls out his card.  
  
"Inception Industries: We intercept, so you don't have to," Eames reads, and then raises an eyebrow very slowly. Arthur shrugs.  
  
"Not my idea," he says, shortly, and looks out over the park. It was Yusuf’s, actually. "You've been selected to join Inception Industries. It's an honour not many people are entrusted with."  
  
"What exactly do you . . . intercept?" Eames asks, looking back down at the card. The dog pants at his feet and he reaches out to scratch behind its ears distractedly. “Parcels? Letters?”  
  
"People," Arthur explains. "We're assassins."  
  
"Really?" grins Eames. "That's  _thrilling_."  
  
This time it's Arthur who raises an eyebrow. "You don't believe me."  
  
"Not really, no," Eames shrugs.  
  
Arthur sighs, hates Cobb for a second, and pulls a gun out of his pocket. Eames hardly reacts, which is a little disappointing, but then Arthur's attaching the silencer and firing. Fifty yards away, a robin drops to the ground, a bullet in its tiny heart. The dog races to it and brings it back.  
  
"Now you're just showing off," Eames says, smirking slightly. Arthur didn't even look at the bird, so, well, maybe Eames has a point, but Arthur will never admit that out loud.  
  
"So. Now it comes down to a simple yes or no," he tells Eames, taking the gun apart and stowing it in the specially sewn pockets of his suit.  
  
"Depends," Eames frowns, reaching down to pat the dog again. He throws the ball and watches the dog bound after it, the robin forgotten . "If I can beat you in a fair fight once I'm trained, can I fuck you?"  
  
Arthur almost chokes on air.  
  
"See, Arthur," Eames says, and Arthur panics, because Eames isn't supposed to know his name yet, "I know you people have been watching me. And I know you've been sent to recruit me, which means you don't really  _want_  me to join, but you  _need_  me to join - so if you go home empty handed someone's going to have your head on a plate. So you can't really say no to this. Because I'm going to get trained. And one day, your superior is going to tell you to fight me, to test me."  
  
Arthur swallows, looks at where the dog is racing back to them, and shrugs.  
  
"You'll be picked up in one hour. Don't tell anyone you're leaving, we'll make this look like a disappearance." He walks away as fast as he can without looking like he's rushing, but he still hears Eames chuckling.  
  
"That's not an answer, Arthur," he calls after him.  
  
Arthur slips into the car that pulls up to the sidewalk and slams the door.  
  
"Bad day at work?" Ariadne asks, sounding amused, as she pulls away from the curb.  
  
"You have no idea," he replies darkly. She insists on playing music while they drive, though, and by the end of  _Rhapsody in Blue_  Arthur's feeling slightly better. They take a detour and end up arriving back at the warehouse just as Cobb's driving out to pick Eames up, which Arthur is rather glad about, since he doesn't have to explain how he was propositioned by their newest recruit. He goes straight for the shooting range, where Yusuf is testing out his newest silencer, and five perfect shots later, he's feeling a lot better.  
  
Down the range, the silencer explodes and Yusuf swears, shaking his hand. Arthur leaves before something more drastic happens.  
  


* * *

  
  
For the next hour, Arthur holes himself up in his room, which lies in the basement of the warehouse. Saito (their unofficial sponsor and provider of most of their marks) once offered to buy them new quarters, but the whole team's so settled in that it would be too weird to move. So he bought them a new basement for the warehouse instead. Arthur's perfectly fine with that; at least he has a place to store his suits. He spends the time trying to complete a new explosive with ten times the force of a normal one its size. He's just about to connect the last wire when the door bangs open.  
  
"Arthur! What a surprise to see you here," Eames grins, leaning against the doorframe. Arthur pretends he didn't just jump, and puts down the wire.  
  
"Don't you have training to start?" he asks, not bothering to keep the bite out of his voice.  
  
"Apparently, you're my trainer, so shouldn't you know the answer to my question?" Eames asks, innocently, and inspects his fingernails. Arthur storms past him up the stairs and comes face to face with Cobb.  
  
"Is there a problem?" Cobb asks, looking slightly confused. Arthur steps backwards, clears his throat, and shakes his head.  
  
"No, no problem, just, uh, shall we get started?" he asks, as Eames walks up the stairs behind him. Cobb gives him a sideways look and Arthur practically power-walks to the shooting range.  
  


* * *

  
  
Turns out Eames is unfairly good at long-distance firing. Later in the afternoon they take him out to a military training ground (Cobb's got a friend in the army who "hires it out" to them every so often), and even there, with a sniper rifle and covered in dirt, he still hits the mark almost every time. Even Arthur wasn't that good when he started. He sees now why Cobb was so adamant that they recruit him.  
  
That evening, once he's made sure his door is locked and no one can bother him, Arthur pulls out the plans he's been drawing up for their next team project. The man's hardly thirty, he realises, as he looks at the pictures - but that doesn't matter. Saito's asked them to do a job, and he'll pay handsomely for it, so they do what they have to do. Unfortunately, since the information is dense, and Arthur's hand is sort of hurting from demonstrating how to avoid the kick on a shotgun, he stops concentrating.  
  
"You're going to have an awfully stiff neck if you sleep like that."  
  
"What are you doing in my room?" Arthur mumbles, mouth stuck to his wrist. He sits up, blinking slowly, and stares at Eames. It’s later than he thought; he must have fallen asleep.  
  
Eames smiles winningly and twists a piece of metal in his hand. "Would you imagine, I found a paperclip just lying in the corridor ..." He shakes his head. "Could've been dangerous. I picked it up so no one would get hurt."  
  
"Out. Of. My. Room," Arthur snaps, and Eames holds his hands up defensively.  
  
"Alright, alright, don't get your knickers in a twist," he sighs, and Arthur tries not to slam the door behind him.  
  
He switches off the desk lamp and goes to bed, painfully aware that Eames' room is the one next to his, and that the walls, despite this being a basement, are thin.  
  


* * *

  
  
After the first ridiculous day, Arthur finds that the hours gather a strange rhythm to them: get annoyed by Eames, train, eat, sleep, shower, eat, repeat. What's doubly annoying is that however much Arthur tries to wear Eames down - with silence, with annoyance, with so much training that he should be dropping down fast asleep at his feet - the man just keeps on going. He's like a machine, Arthur thinks, as he shows Eames how to hit the solar plexus just right, so that a man will go down wheezing and unable to breathe properly for a minute.  
  
They're practicing in the gym on the second floor of the warehouse. It's the one place that Arthur still has an advantage over Eames: he has black belts in most of the martial arts, and Eames has only been in a couple of drunken pub brawls. Not that he isn't fast on his feet - he's very quick, very sharp, and very powerful. Arthur manages to floor him with a roundhouse kick, though, and bounces on the balls of his feet as he waits for Eames to get back up.  
  
"Remind me why you like to kick my teeth out again," Eames mutters, spitting blood onto the ground. Arthur looks away; somehow, that should not be so hot, he thinks. Next second, Eames is charging him down, and Arthur has just enough time to get his knee up and demonstrate the solar plexus hit minus a pole.  
  
"So," Arthur grits out, as he pushes Eames backwards with two feet and simultaneously flips back onto his feet, "that you will get better."  
  
"And my dentist will get richer, obviously," Eames nods, once he's finished gasping for breath on the floor. His shirt is stained red in some areas, and there's a deep blue bruise on one cheek. Arthur almost feels guilty. He throws Eames a towel and makes to leave the gym.  
  
"Wait," Eames calls after him. "I'm still standing, you haven't won yet."  
  
Arthur looks back at the doorway. Cobb's leaning against the wall, the smallest of smiles on his face. He nods, just once, and leaves the room.  
  
"Fine," Arthur mutters to himself, and turns back to Eames.  
  


* * *

  
  
Two months after Eames has joined them, Arthur finds himself very nearly losing a fight. He looks up, wiping blood from his lower lip and cheek, to find Eames already coming at him with a machete. They’d only begun using them the following day. Sidestepping requires a lot more effort than Arthur feels like it should, but it’s almost reward enough to see Eames try to swing round. Sometimes his build works against him.  
  
Surprisingly, Eames never complains when he loses. Nor does he swear or shout or try and shoot Arthur (which is sometimes what Ariadne did). Arthur has a sneaking suspicion that this is because Eames still considers their bargain to be on; but the thought doesn’t bear thinking about, so Arthur leaves it alone.  
  
Three months after Eames has joined them, Cobb takes him out on his first mission. It’s not a big thing, just a small assignment from Saito, but Arthur still feels slightly insulted not to be taken along. Cobb, of course, gives him that look that says  _I know what you’re thinking_  and then tells him that three’s a crowd when it comes to a mark, but Arthur ignores him and goes and puts in a few hours with Ariadne in the gym. She’s too quick for him, though, and he goes down before either of them are even bruised.  
  
“You’re distracted,” she says, suddenly, as she hands him a towel. “I never beat you unless you’ve missed a mark and had to shoot twice.”  
  
Arthur doesn’t reply. He smiles tightly, kisses her on the cheek because otherwise she’ll worry, and goes back to running the computer hacking programme he’d started work on the night before. The night before, when he couldn’t sleep, because the walls were too thin.  
  
Actually, that’s not entirely true, Arthur thinks, as he stares at the virus codes. The walls being too thin are only half the problem: the other half is Eames.  
  
He’s distracted from his chain of thought by a knock on his door.  
  
“We’ve got a problem,” Cobb says, clutching at the door handle, and Arthur can’t stop himself racing up the stairs. He knows what that phrase means, and it’s never good. On one of the chairs next to Yusuf’s lab, Eames is sprawled out, his leg bleeding onto the floor.  
  
“What happened?” Arthur asks, already pulling out the med kit from the cupboard and finding the thread for stitches.   
  
“Mark had guards,” Cobb shrugs, cutting Eames’ trouser leg away. There’s blood everywhere, but as far as Arthur can tell, it’s only a knife wound, not a gunshot. Arthur’s hands don’t shake as he pours antiseptic over the wound and then uses cotton wool to dab at the blood around the clean edges of the cut.  
  
“Worried about me, Arthur?” Eames asks, thickly, but he’s trying to smile, Arthur can tell.  
  
“As worried as I am about a meteor colliding with earth,” he replies, and then turns his attention back to stitching up the wound. It takes two injections to get the local anaesthetic to work, and then twenty stitches to make sure it’s properly closed up. Eames doesn’t look at his leg; he stares at a point on the ceiling, not saying anything.  
  
When they’re done, Cobb goes to get everyone a glass of whiskey. “You should probably give him the Talk,” he whispers to Arthur as he leaves. Arthur rolls his eyes and sits down next to Eames, who’s tossing back whiskey like water. He feels like asking Eames why he didn’t just use a sniper and stay away from the mark, but it probably got complicated and Cobb had to step in. That means his first mission isn’t a complete pass, but neither is it a total fail either.  
  
“No, I’m not having doubts about this job,” he says, before Arthur can launch into his spiel. “I guessed when you said ‘assassin’ that I was going to be trained to kill people; I’m not going to back out three months later because I didn’t realise someone’s blood would be on my hands.”  
  
Arthur can’t think of anything to say.  
  
“It’s not easy,” is all he can come up with, eventually, and at that Eames stops drinking and really looks at Arthur.  
  
“How did you start?” he asks, quietly. Arthur looks down at his glass and stares at the amber liquid inside it.  
  
“Cobb found me, same as he found you and Ariadne. I was in the army before,” he sighs, trying to keep his voice level. He’s never told anyone what he did before Cobb came along, not even Ariadne, and she’s the closest thing he has to a friend. Eames makes as if to say something, so Arthur gets up and takes the whiskey glasses over to the make-shift kitchen and rinses them out. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Eames push himself slowly to his feet and limp down the stairs to his room.  
  


* * *

  
  
One in the morning finds Arthur staring at his computer screen, trying to decide whether he should go to bed or not. Usually by now Eames has knocked on his door and tried to distract him, but Arthur hasn’t heard a single sound from him since he came downstairs. It’s almost worrying.  
  
Two in the morning and he can’t hear anything. Arthur’s concentration breaks completely, and without really meaning to, he slips out of his room and opens Eames’ door. It’s lucky that Eames never locks his room, or the noise might have woken him - that is, if he’s asleep.  
  
“Coming to check on me?” Eames asks. He’s propped up in bed, a book on his lap - is that  _Dostoevsky_?, Arthur wonders, incredulous - with the covers rumpled around his waist.  
  
“Do you need any painkillers?” Arthur counters, avoiding the question. Eames picks up an empty packet of Ibuprofen and shakes it gently in the air.  
  
“A glass of water would be  _wonderful_ , though,” he grins, winningly, and goes back to reading.  
  
Two minutes later Arthur slams the glass down next to him, feeling vindicated when it spills a little onto the bedside table. “Temper, temper,” Eames chides him, closing the book and putting it aside on the covers. He pats a space next to his leg. “Why don’t you amuse the invalid for a while?”  
  
“You’ll probably try to molest me,” Arthur replies shortly, and Eames shrugs.  
  
“You’ve found me out. What can I say, you’re infinitely molestable.” Arthur rolls his eyes and makes to leave.  
  
“You can’t leave,” Eames laughs, “your lack of decent training has led me to this near-fatal injury!”  
  
Arthur pauses at the door, and then turns around. “Eames,” he sighs, as he sits back down on the bed. “Shut up.”  
  
Arthur’s not sure if it’s his forceful tone that does it, or the fact that he leans over and kisses Eames. It’s not as if it’s a surprise, really - Eames has been pushing it for months now, never letting up with the coy reminders of their bargain (which, Arthur would like to remind him, he never agreed to) or with blatant flirting - and frankly, Arthur’s tired of side-stepping. His job is far too dangerous to put up with this shit outside of it.  
  
But more to the point, kissing Eames is oddly, well,  _nice_ , Arthur decides. He tastes of whiskey from earlier on in the evening, and when Arthur bites at his lower lip, Eames makes a noise like a pleased gasp and opens his mouth to Arthur. Beneath Arthur’s fingers there’s the slightest hint of stubble, and he can smell the lime in Eames’ aftershave, the clean scent of his shampoo. Arthur stops concentrating on anything else - he might as well enjoy this, after all - and licks into Eames’ mouth.  
  
Eames kisses down Arthur’s neck like he’s never touched anyone before, and Arthur allows him a minute’s exploration before he kisses him soundly on the lips again, extracts himself, and leaves the room. The sight of Eames sitting up in bed, looking slightly shell-shocked, his hair ruffled and his lips deep pink and shiny, is going to haunt him, Arthur’s sure.  
  
But when he locks and bolts his door and hears absolutely nothing from the room next door, he’s also sure that it was absolutely worth it.  
  


* * *

  
  
The next morning Arthur is woken by the rustle of paper underneath his door. A thick envelope lies innocently on the carpet, unopened. Arthur rolls over in bed, rolls over again, and eventually gets up and opens it with a finger. The clock beside his bed blinks seven a.m.  
  
Pictures of a new mark. Location. Time. Fee.  
  
Arthur showers, shaves, dresses and is gone.  
  


* * *

  
  
He doesn’t get back for a week. The mark’s in India, which means Arthur has to fly there, choose his equipment, make sure he’s not seen - and neither is the crime - and then clear up and get home. It’s not his hardest job, not by far, but it’s time consuming. The weather is too hot and the food is too spicy, so he exists on rice for most of the time. He gets back to the warehouse feeling oddly ill, like someone’s placed a damp cloth on his body and has refused to take it off, and collapses onto his bed, asleep instantly.  
  


* * *

  
  
When he wakes, it’s to the feeling of someone slowly unbuttoning his shirt.  
  
“Eames,” he mutters, trying to clear his throat. “Now is not the time.”  
  
“You’re burning up,” Eames replies, sounding slightly nervous. “You’re feverish and you’ll ruin this shirt if you carry on lying in it. Just go back to sleep.”  
  
For once in his life, Arthur feels like taking Eames’ advice, so he does so. Shapes blur together behind his eyes, and each time he wakes, it feels like his arms and legs are made of lead. Sometimes he shakes, hot and frozen at the same time, but sometimes he just feels more tired than he ever has in his life.  
  
He’s not sure how much time goes by before he wakes up properly, but his muscles feel stiff and unused. Arthur swallows, his throat dry as dust, and sits up. His vision blacks for a moment as all the blood rushes from his head, and then he blinks, and finds Eames standing in the doorway.  
  
“Didn’t want to appear too clingy by sitting at my bedside, hmm?” Arthur smirks, as he swings his legs out of bed. Eames says nothing, but there’s a look in his eyes that Arthur’s never seen before.  
  
“That was some fever you had,” is all he remarks. He’s eating peanuts, Arthur realises, and then goes back to trying to stand up. It’s oddly difficult.  
  
“How long was I out?” Judging by Eames’ leg, probably a week or more.  
  
“Eight days,” Eames tells him, and throws him a towel. “Shower, eat, go talk to Cobb.”  
  
And then he’s gone, without a further word. Arthur tries not to feel confused; after all, he’s still recovering.  
  


* * *

  
The talk with Cobb turns out to be a debriefing of his last mission, and then some tests to make sure he’s really recovering. “I think it’s just a bad case of flu, but you can’t be too careful,” Cobb says, in the quiet, controlled way he has of speaking that’s always managed to calm Arthur down. “Take it easy for the next two days, then start up with training again.”  
  
“What about Eames?” Arthur asks, fiddling with a die he found in his bedside table as he was searching for aftershave. He used to keep it in his pocket all the time.   
  
“Eames?” Cobb frowns. “Eames is fine, he’s taking down marks, no need to worry. Seems to have quite a talent for disguises. And making fake passports.”  
  
Arthur hides a smile and goes back to his room. He replaces the sheets on his bed, starts up his computer, and tries to get going on the virus programme again, but it’s no use - the time away has lessened his interest and he can’t quite remember what he wanted the virus to achieve anyway. He drags himself up to talk to Ariadne, who’s just returned from Thailand, and then ends up testing all the rifles, shotguns and sniper rifles they have in stock in the shooting range.  
  
By ten he’s exhausted, and by eleven he’s asleep.  
  


* * *

  
  
Three weeks pass before Arthur feels like he can take anyone on in a fight again. He hasn’t taken on any jobs and Cobb hasn’t suggested it, but in the back of his mind, Arthur knows there’s something Cobb isn’t saying yet.  
  
It takes him one more day to get bored of it. “Ok, what is it?” he asks, cleaning his gun as Cobb lines up to take another shot.  
  
“What’s what?” Cobb replies, and hits a perfect bullseye.  
  
“I know you and Mal are fine, Ariadne’s not hurt, Eames is apparently performing perfectly well and Yusuf hasn’t made the whole warehouse collapse, so it’s something to do with me - so what is it?” Arthur replies, trying not to sound like he’s attempting to win a legal case against Cobb.  
  
Cobb puts the gun down and rests his hands on the wooden gate between him and the range. He looks older; Arthur suddenly realises he doesn’t even know how old Cobb is. They’re always so focused on being in their best form for a job that the personal details often get left behind. “You remember when you finished your training, and I told you that you still had one test left?” Cobb asks, staring ahead of him.  
  
Arthur’s blood runs oddly cold. “Yes,” he says, quietly.  
  
“I know you’ve not been well enough but we can’t delay anymore,” Cobb continues. “Tomorrow.”  
  
He puts the gun away and walks out of the range.  
  
Arthur sits and cleans his gun.  
  


* * *

  
  
“Eames?” Arthur knocks on the door. It swings open a minute later, only to grace Arthur with the sight of Eames in a towel, and nothing else.  
  
“Yes?”  
  
“Ten minutes, upstairs,” Arthur says, pointedly not looking at Eames’ bare chest, and flees up the stairs to the gym. Eames follows him a few minutes later, coming in just as Arthur’s finished warming up.  
  
“Oh, I see what this is,” Eames grins, picking up a machete and tossing it lightly between his hands. Arthur eyes it slightly nervously; of all the weapons in the gym, the machete is his least favourite. It also seems to be one Eames prefers to use. “Cobb put you up to this, didn’t he?”  
  
Arthur doesn’t reply, picking out a short elegant sword with a pointed tip. It’s tradition for all the new recruits to fight their trainers; that’s how it’s always been - Ariadne fought Arthur, Arthur fought Cobb, and once, Cobb probably fought whoever trained him. Arthur wonders why they can’t just say Eames is a member - he’s been on missions now, after all - but this is something Cobb’s asked him to do, and when Mal isn’t involved, Cobb usually has the right idea.  
  
“I hope you remember our bargain,” Eames says, quietly, and Arthur feigns a jab to the left.  
  
Arthur can’t think of anything other than keeping his breathing steady; he breathes in while he raises his arms, out as he strikes forward. The same intense look in his eyes is reflected in Eames’, he’s sure, but there’s no time to look, only to duck and block a well-timed thrust. The machete clips Arthur’s thumb and a long line of red appears on the skin, staining Arthur’s clothes a minute later. In retaliation he manages to cut Eames’ thigh, just below where his stitches were, and then has to take drastic evasive manoeuvres in order not to get stabbed between the ribs.  
  
“I’m going to beat you,” Eames says, quietly, so that Arthur can only just hear him, but the words stay with him, even as they continue to fight. Sweat beads down Arthur’s spine, making his shirt stick to him, and Eames cuts a long line horizontally on Arthur’s back as Arthur turns. Arthur winces despite himself, grabs a short staff from its place on the wall, and blocks a heavy cut from Eames. After that it’s a free-for-all, both of them grabbing whatever they can and hurling, cutting and swinging until Arthur’s arms ache with the effort of it, and he can hardly think of anything but ending the fight.  
  
Eames spits blood onto the ground and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Arthur makes a last-ditch attempt at an advantage, but the ground is wiped out from under his feet and before he can think, he’s on his back, the long sword in one hand and Eames’ discarded machete in the other, crossed over one another in order to block Eames’ blade.  
  
Arthur tries not to panic. He manages to push himself off the ground enough to roll them so that he has the advantage, but Eames’ build gives him the advantage and soon he’s on his back again.  
  
Lying there, Arthur wonders when last he lost a fight. Probably to Cobb, and maybe once or twice to Ariadne - but never to Eames. It would be so easy to give up, right now, and let Eames win, but Arthur pushes again and rolls to the side, away from Eames and onto his knees, only to find himself with the blade of Eames’ sword inches from his throat.  
  
He could probably block that blow if he wanted to, Arthur realises. And Eames knows that too, he thinks, staring at Eames’ eyes. This fight could go on a lot longer, and Arthur could possibly win, but --  
  
But there’s no point fighting anymore, Arthur thinks.  
  
The swords clatter to the ground. Arthur shuts his eyes and waits for something - anything - but all he gets is a sigh.  
  
“Took your time, didn’t you?” Eames says, quietly, and then Arthur has to avoid having a sword dropped on his foot because Eames is putting his hands all over Arthur, like he hasn’t seen him in years; like he’s blind and needs to remember how he looks with his hands. Arthur can taste blood when Eames kisses him, and when Eames licks into his mouth Arthur can’t even think anymore.  
  
“Bedroom,” he gasps, as Eames kisses down his neck, and they stumble down the stairs, shedding shirts as they go. Arthur wants to touch every inch of the skin Eames is showing him, and it’s torture waiting until they’re in Eames’ room. Eames pushes him back onto the bed and pulls down the loose trousers Arthur always wears for sparring, and then he reaches for a bottle of lube (where from, Arthur’s never quite sure) and Arthur’s mind is blown.  
  
Actually, it’s blown five minutes later when Eames has two fingers crooked beautifully inside Arthur, tonguing at his cock with his lips all sticky and swollen from kissing. Arthur bites the heel of his hand to keep from moaning, but Eames moves up his body and pulls his hand away, kissing the indentations of Arthur’s teeth on his skin. “Don’t,” he says, and licks a long stripe along Arthur’s cock. Arthur bites his lip but can’t hold back the next noise of appreciation he makes when Eames adds another finger and licks at where his fingers enter Arthur’s body.  
  
“I thought about this,” Eames says, as he presses gently against Arthur’s prostate. Arthur’s body shudders like he’s been shocked and he gasps hotly against his palm.  
  
“I know,” he pants, toes curling against the sheets. “I heard you.”  
  
Eames chuckles softly. “Thin walls, eh?” He doesn’t wait for a response, removing his fingers and moving up Arthur’s body to kiss him. Arthur’s body thrums with tense pleasure, like a spring ready to uncoil, but Eames just kisses him, slow and deep until Arthur wants to just reach down and jerk himself off, and damn Eames. He actually tries to, but Eames bats his hands away like he’s as weak as he was when he was ill and pins them above his head. And, well, that’s another Eames-related kink Arthur doesn’t need to have. Eames chuckles against the skin of Arthur’s neck and slips two fingers back into him, slowly, teasingly.  
  
“God, I hate you,” Arthur manages to mutter.  
  
“Eames will suffice,” Eames replies, running his thumb along Arthur’s jawline as he tilts his neck so he can plant open-mouthed kisses along Arthur’s neck and shoulder.  
  
“I hate your tattoos and your awful pink shirts and the way you always eat peanuts when you’re nervous and how you never complain when you’re beat up,” Arthur says, his voice uneven as Eames curls his fingers slightly again.  
  
“And I hate the way you just won’t shut up while I’m trying to get you off, so we’re even,” Eames replies, and kisses Arthur until he can’t breathe properly, which seems to be something of a hobby for Eames. Arthur curls his fingers through the short hair at the base of Eames’ neck and bites at his collarbone, body shaking from pent-up tension. Eames moans against Arthur’s chest and spreads Arthur’s legs so he can kneel between them.  
  
Arthur’s sort of expecting Eames to fuck him, which is why he’s almost disappointed when Eames just continues to fuck him with his fingers until he comes, messily, all over his stomach. Arthur’s vision whites out temporarily, but when he comes back to reality, Eames is sitting between his thighs, his hand moving slowly on his cock. Arthur’s whole body feels like it’s protesting when he moves, the stress of the fight and then the sex taking its toll on him, but he closes a hand over Eames’ and watches him as he comes apart, his mouth slightly open, and then kisses him as he gasps and his eyes clamp shut.  
  
“I know,” Eames says, when they’ve both rolled onto the dry side of the bed, “I didn’t fuck you. But I’m saving the best for later.”  
  
Arthur only manages a dignified snort before he falls asleep.  
  


* * *

  
  
The next morning, Arthur bumps into Yusuf on the way to the shooting range.  
  
“Those are awful mosquito bites,” he says, shaking his head. Arthur frowns, confused, and continues on his way.  
  
“You’ve got a kinda... a rash on your neck,” Ariadne tells him at lunch, eating cold Chinese takeaway as they lean against the kitchen counters.  
  
Cobb doesn’t say anything, but by then Arthur’s fully aware of exactly what’s on his neck.  
  
At that moment, Eames breezes in from downstairs, smelling freshly showered and of apples. Arthur pretends to be very interested in his food, until Eames steals a piece of chicken and gets a beer from the fridge.  
  
“There’s an envelope on the table for you,” Cobb says to Eames, and then retreats to his own plans.  
  
“So, did I pass?” Eames asks, waggling his eyebrows.  
  
“With flying colours, I should say,” Ariadne says under her breath.  
  
Arthur says nothing: the sound of Eames’ grin overpowers everything.  
  


* * *

  
  
Two weeks later, lying naked on the end of Eames’ bed, a question occurs to Arthur.  
  
“What happened to your dog?” he asks.  
  
“My dog?” Eames frowns, and then shrugs. “Oh, that dog. He’s not mine, he was my friend’s.” He shoots an amused glance at Arthur. “Anyone would think you were actually interested in me.”  
  
“Don’t be ridiculous, Mr. Eames,” Arthur mutters, and kisses him.  
  


* * *

  
  
Life goes on, surprisingly, Arthur discovers. He and Eames train - when they’re not otherwise occupied - they go on missions, Eames finds Arthur’s obsession with suits amusing while Arthur degrades Eames’ taste in pink shirts, and Arthur pretends not to worry when Eames comes back hurt (again) from a mission and bitches about the jagged cut on his arm messing up his tattoo.  
  
One day, eating cold pizza around the table, Cobb walks in with an air of business. Ariadne shoots Arthur a significant look.  
  
“We’ve got a project for the team,” Cobb announces, putting a large folder down on the table.“His name’s Robert Fischer.”

**Author's Note:**

> when this was written i thanked lj users soxdamnxcute and staraflur, so i shall thank them again.


End file.
